Inevitable
by Reebus
Summary: Pieces of PS-SS from Snape's PoV. Trying to get inside Snape's head. Angsty, of course, as it's Snape. Ch.1 revised a bit; Ch. 2 submitted.
1. Hoodlums and Fools

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling created Snape, his hatred of all things Potter, and all the other characters, settings, etc. that I will be using. I didn't create them, don't own them, and won't be making any money off of them—but just knowing them is quite rewarding enough! 

In fanon, it's very tempting to draw parallels between the Marauders and the Trio (generally with Neville added as Pettigrew). And there are parallels that can be accurately drawn. However, we run the risk of forgetting that the two generations are made up of distinct people, with personalities of their own that are not borrowed from either the future or the past. I think Snape has made this mistake. He sees Harry and his generation only in terms of his (already somewhat skewed) perceptions of James and his friends. This piece will be something of a character sketch, helping me get inside Snape's head in preparation for a couple of other fics concerning him that I'm working on. Please point out anything, even something small, that seems OOC for Snape.

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**Chapter 1: Hoodlums and Fools**

It would have taken so very little for me not to have hated the Potter boy. If his hair had been a different color, perhaps. Or even if it would have lain flat. But no, he had to look exactly like his father. The resemblance is stunning; it's obvious even from a distance as he waits to be Sorted—he even _stands_ like his father did. Muttering to the red-haired boy next to him—another Weasley, obviously—and smiling arrogantly at the hat. Of course all the foolish children—and a few of the staff, I see—start whispering madly as soon as his name is called. Disgusting. Gryffindor, of course. Odd that it took the hat a while to decide; I expected it to send Potter to Gryffindor as quickly as it sent Malfoy to Slytherin. It fits Potter, though—keep everyone in suspense; stay in the limelight as long as possible.

I'm sure he's enjoying himself—everyone staring at him, the Gryffindors cheering like the fools they are, those odious Weasley twins chanting—other people would have had the grace to look embarrassed, but not him. No, he loves adulation. Just like his father. Prince Potter—pampered all his life, I'm sure. Raised by those Muggle relatives—I know I've heard somewhere that Muggles spoil their children. And now he sits at the Gryffindor table, drinking in the admiration, buttering up the Weasley prefect, already forming his gang of hoodlums. The Weasley first year promptly sits next to him—clearly, he will be Black. They gravitated to each other instantly, as troublemakers always will, most likely on the train.

_It was nearly the last compartment, with only two boys in it already. Both had dark hair, although one's was a good deal messier than the other._

"_Who're you?" the messy-haired one asked suspiciously._

"_No need to ask that, Potter," said the other with a sneer. "Greasy hair, big nose, holding a book on hexes—it's obvious he's a Snape."_

_It had already been a trying day, and that was just about the last insult I could stand. I pulled out my wand._

"_Oh, so you're going to hex us, are you!" said the messy-haired one angrily. "You're one of those Dark Arts types, aren't you? Well, you can just clear off! We don't want any of your sort around!"_

_I was trying to decide what the best curse would be for these arrogant gits when a timid voice interrupted from behind me._

"_Er, excuse me—is there any room in this compartment?" It was a thin, pale, brown-haired boy, who looked decidedly nervous._

"_Obviously not, as they've just been ordering me off," I snapped, thinking I might have found an ally. The brown-haired boy backed up a step as I swung around towards him. He was a cowardly hypocrite, even then. But as soon as my back was turned, the messy-haired one grabbed me from behind, pinning my wand arm to my side._

"_There's no room for _you,_ Snape," scoffed the taller dark-haired one. "But you can come in—what's your name, anyway?"_

_"Er, Remus, Remus Lupin," said the brown-haired boy, looking at me apprehensively as I struggled against Potter. He stepped carefully past me; I swear I could see him trembling. Then Potter and the other dark-haired one shoved me to the ground and slammed the door._

Pity I didn't know who Black was at the time; I could have told Potter a thing or two about "Dark Arts types." Then maybe things would have gone differently. Not that I would have become friends with either one of them. But if I could have kept them from being friends with each other… My life certainly would have been easier. But it was probably inevitable, just as Potter and Weasley's alliance was inevitable. They were the type that would find each other and promptly begin wreaking as much havoc as possible.

So now I must deal with history repeating itself. The new Potter and the new Black—and I know Lupin and Pettigrew will show themselves soon enough. But I'll make sure they don't have an easy ride of it this time around.

I wonder if one of them will turn traitor this time. Most likely—callous, arrogant, bullying; no reason for them to stay loyal to anyone any longer than it suits them. Potter was a fool to think he would be immune to Black's cruelty. And Pettigrew—I realise everyone says he died a hero, but I still say he died a fool. A typical Gryffindor fool, throwing his life away for no good reason. What else was he to do, I suppose, with nobody left to fawn on.

I mutter something in response to whatever Quirrell's babbling about. Another fool, that one, thinking nobody suspects the real reason he's become a different person. I'll have to stop sitting next to him, though, as being near him causes the old Mark to twinge ever so slightly. I do not know if the Dark Lord will realise that his presence, even in a weakened form, will have that effect. I confess it worries me. It would have been quite enough to worry about this year, the potential return of the Dark Lord, without also having Potter back to taunt me. Between the two of them, I suppose I'll be lucky to finish the year with my sanity intact.

Potter looks straight up at me for a moment, and I make no effort to hide my contempt—he should start realising that not everyone worships him. But he ignores this and promptly starts showing off his scar. Famous because of a scar, famous for something he didn't even do—for I am sure Dumbledore is right, that it was Lily who triumphed over the Dark Lord, triumphed even in death. Gave herself up to save—by Merlin! To save this arrogant, ungrateful brat. Nowhere is the Dark Lord's power shown so clearly but in that exchange. She is gone, and no-one is left but this filthy, prideful—gaah. Words fail me, and that _never_ happens.

He's laughing at Dumbledore's warning about the third-floor corridor now. The brat will probably head straight for it tomorrow. Any chance to show off, and all the better if it's something foolish and dangerous... Exactly like his father.

At least I'm outliving them. The old Potter gang, that is. I've outlasted Potter and Pettigrew; Black's rotting in Azkaban; Lupin's no doubt starving in a shack somewhere. I'll outlive them all—I can take some pleasure from that. Or I could, if it weren't for them being reincarnated before my very eyes tonight.


	2. Lessons

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling created Snape, Dumbledore, Snape's hatred of all things Potter, Dumbledore's kindness, and all the other characters, settings, etc. that I will be using. I didn't create them, don't own them, and won't be making any money off of them—but just knowing them is quite rewarding enough!

Thanks for the reviews so far! Duj, thanks for pointing out my confusing timing with Snape and Harry's eyes meeting. I had it right in my head, but didn't write it down well. You'll notice I changed Ch. 1 around a bit.

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**Chapter 2: Lessons **

My goal for this lesson is to make it clear to Potter at once that he will not succeed in my class through celebrity alone. He looks up at me as I reach his name in the roll call, looks at me with eyes that are—mother of Morgana! Lily's eyes. Lily's eyes staring out of Potter's face, as though he stole them to taunt me.

I deliver my line about celebrity unimpeded; my self-control is sufficient to hide nearly any amount of shock in front of a group of students. But I must admit my mind is reeling as I complete the roll call. One thing is clear: It makes the boy even more revolting than I had imagined. Lily's eyes in Potter's face—the bastard is mocking me from beyond the grave.

And now the boy himself is losing no time in mocking me, exchanging derisive glances with Weasley as I explain the art of Potion-making. He _will_ learn respect for me—

"Potter!" If he wants to stand out, let him. I have picked quite excellent questions for this class. Naturally, Potter reveals instantly that he has no idea what asphodel and wormwood are. My usual practice is to address the first-day questions to the entire class, but Potter has goaded me into breaking with tradition. I stump him easily with the bezoar question also, and he appears to have never heard of monkshood by any of its names. That should begin teaching him what will happen if he tries to show off in my class.

But an instant later, he proves he hasn't learned anything yet—and apparently he fancies himself to be witty! Giving me cheek about calling on Granger instead of trying to answer my questions. Calling attention to himself with jokes the first day of class—disgusting!

At least I have the pleasure of being the first to take a point from him.

And incidentally, that Granger girl seems quite infuriating.

Then that Longbottom fool—the new Pettigrew, apparently—fails utterly at even the simple first-day potion—and Potter, working with Weasley right beside him, didn't even bother to help him. He isn't satisfied with calling attention to himself; he can't even look out for his friends! Is it possible he's worse than his father? Difficult to imagine, but then I'll never put anything past a Potter. At any rate, he loses his second point.

I leave the lesson wanting to throw and smash expensive things. I head for my quarters, thinking I may do just that—but who should be waiting at my door but Dumbledore. Eyes twinkling as usual. The last thing I want at the moment, damnit—

"Well?" he asks innocently. "How did it go?"

"How did _what_ go?" I snarl, letting us both into my office.

"What do you think of Harry?"

"Arrogant little git of a brat," I say through clenched teeth. No point in trying to hide anything from Dumbledore. No point in looking at him either; I know quite well the look of disappointment that will be in his eyes. "What? Did you expect me to dote on him like everyone else? To enjoy his company when he is _exactly_ like the man who tormented me?"

"I must confess, Severus," he says evenly, "that I had hoped you would be able to look beyond—"

"He gave me cheek the first day of class. He let a friend fail miserably so that he could look better. He's showing off already. Just like his father."

"I realise he looks quite like James—"

"_Exactly_ like him."

"But he has Lily's eyes, Severus," says Dumbledore. "Doesn't that help?" He has no idea! _Help!_ It makes it infinitely worse, the boy infinitely more hateful. Lily's eyes in Potter's face—what could possibly be more horrid? She was—could have been—my friend. Her eyes staring out of _his_ face—as though he planned it so that he could go on taunting me even after his death. I could vomit at the sight of it.

"Severus—"

I realize I am pacing around my office, my fists clenched, while Dumbledore watches calmly. I haven't done that since—well, since we realised what the real trouble was with Quirrell. I take a deep breath and begin clearing my mind. I ought to have better control than this. I must have better control, with the Dark Lord around. I square my shoulders and face the Headmaster.

"Severus, he's important," he says with an odd note in his voice—a bite of urgency, tenseness.

"I'm not likely to forget _that_," I say sarcastically, "with everyone whispering his name and falling over themselves to get a glance at him in the hallways—"

"That is not what I am talking about, Severus," says Dumbledore firmly. "I'm sure you remember that there is a prophecy?"

I sigh and fling myself into a chair. Of course I remember the bloody prophecy.

"Yes," I say, "a prophecy which you have not seen fit to tell me the wording of—"

"A prophecy which it is safer for you not to know the wording of—"

"—detailing something to do with Potter vanquishing the Dark Lord."

"That he will have the power to do so," says Dumbledore carefully, "not that he will actually do it." He looks at me gravely for a moment. "So, Severus, when I say he is important, I do not mean that he should be revered or coddled or treated differently from other students. I mean that his life is important. His training is important. If we wish for the world to be free from the threat of Voldemort"—I flinch automatically at the name—"we must keep him safe and teach him everything that we can."

"Yes, yes, Headmaster," I say crossly, "I understand."

Dumbledore regards me closely.

"I'm depending on you, Severus," he says quietly. "You know that you and Minerva are the only staff fully informed of the—situation—this year."

"The situation with Quirrell," I respond dully.

"With Quirrell, but also with Harry and the prophecy."

I glance at him. Is he trying to say—suddenly I sit up straighter.

"Headmaster, you don't mean—surely you're not saying that the prophecy refers to this year?"

He sighs.

"I have no way of knowing, Severus." He sounds a bit tired, and he looks—well, worried. I _hate_ it when he looks worried.

"Headmaster, he is not prepared—this is only his first year, for Merlin's sake! Even with the Dark Lord in a weak state, a first-year could never—"

Dumbledore holds up a hand calmly, the worried expression sent away.

"I know, Severus. I am not planning to send Harry into a wizard's duel with Voldemort." A glimmer of amusement touches his face. "I am merely asking you to keep an eye out for his safety as often as possible. Voldemort knows of the prophecy also, as you know. He may make another attempt to eliminate Harry before he deems him old enough to be a serious threat."

As usual, I am grateful to Dumbledore for pretending not to notice when I flinch at the Dark Lord's name. A few years ago, I finally became able to hear the name without giving any outward sign—but now, with him so near—

"Severus?" Dumbledore now looks concerned. I realize that I am holding my left forearm. "May I?" He is gently taking my left arm and pushing up the sleeve. I sigh and allow him to do so. Gently, he touches the spot where the Mark would be. "It has not become visible at all?" he asks.

"No, sir," I answer. "It only gives a faint pang every now and then—and only when I am near Quirrell."

He nods.

"Good, then. You will let me know if there are any changes?"

"Naturally." This is the sort of conversation I try to use when I fall into a foul mood and try to convince myself that Dumbledore is only using me. But it never works, for he always follows up with something like—

"Severus, you know that you have my trust," he says soberly. "Always. And my gratitude—for all your vigilance and for all the risks you have taken and will take in this war."

"Yes, Headmaster," I sigh, not looking at him. I always feel torn between annoyance and—well—some sort of weak emotion when he starts speaking along these lines.

"But more than that, Severus," he says as we stand to go, "I want you to remember that even if you are exposed as a spy and can no longer serve any role whatsoever in this war, you will always have my friendship." He puts both hands on my shoulders and looks earnestly into my eyes. "Please remember. It is _you_ and not your value as a spy that I care about."

"Thank you, Headmaster," I say, no longer meeting his gaze. Damned worried, caring blue eyes...

"Now," he says, turning towards the door, the twinkling cheerfulness firmly back in place, "I believe lunch is waiting for us in the Great Hall."

And I allow him to sweep me out of my office.


End file.
